03. Pleasured Profanities

Ashlynn's POV:

     TRISTAN'S funeral was quite pathetic to say the least. Well, that's what everyone who had attended it said. 

     I for one, was forbidden by my dear mother to attend. But I would've preferred they had given the late love of my life a very befitting burial as he was quite a handsome gentleman, right until his very end. 

     It's no surprise that his funeral was crapstatic and beggarly. His family were penniless nobodies and couldn't even as much as afford to launch a proper murder case investigation— thankfully. 

     My mother who would've helped, had blatantly refused to have anything to do with "Those wretched dipstick Hollands" after she had found out from Tristan's drunken mother that they were only marrying into our family because we were stinking rich, not because he loved me. 

Poor shame. 

     Well, leave it to Mrs. Holland— a spewing drunk, to get intoxicated before her son's supposed wedding and blurt out her family's secret to wealth. 

      So technically, the wedding wouldn't have held either way, because while I was thrusting the table knife into Tristan's ribcage lovingly, there was a huge argument going on nineteen floors above between our families about Mrs. Hollands little drunken speech.

And that gave me enough time to deal with her. . .

     Aaralynn was currently frostied-up somewhere at the bottom of the ocean, eneveloped gracefully in her own priced pink suitcase. 

     After slitting Aaralynn's wrist and strangling her with a pillow, I delicately packaged her remains into her suitcase and took it down into the trunk of my car. 

Trust me, it weighed a ton! I really, really needed to work out more.

     And I'm grateful that all I got from everyone I walked past were just puzzled gawks and concerned stares as to why a gorgeously dressed bride was struggling with a suitcase, and no one threatened to call the cops. 

Even the two blondie receptionists didn't pay much attention to me as they were busy filing their nails. 

      After I had gone back to my suite and met with the quite suprising news that Tristan was nothing but a goodlooking golddigger, I had an episodic mental break down and nearly ran insane. 

It was just shock, after shock, after shock. It seemed to never end. 

     I had completely ripped off my wedding dress— that surprisingly had no blood stains on it, leaving me clad in just my bra and panties in a theatric fit of my heartbroken display and proceeding to cry and wail endlessly. 

A bit too much? 

     However, when everyone had went to checkup on Aaralynn in her private suit, wondering why she hadn't come to meet up with everyone, they met with the remains of freshly murdered Noah and Aaralynn was no where to be found. 

     The security cameras on that floor were sadly 'out-of-service' at the moment and hadn't recorded anything for the past week.

Cliche definitely, but it was to my favour. 

     Everyone then settled on a theory that an enemy of the family wanted to murder the groom and the bride on their wedding day, and mistook Aaralynn for me and then they kidnapped her. But everyone wondered why Tristan was in Aaralynn's room in the first place. 

     Well on my way back home, I tossed the very, very much heavy pink suitcase over the bridge and it landed into the ocean with a thudding slosh.

     And for some reason, the refreshing sound of her dropping into the ocean spawned a very humongous grin on my face, I've always wanted to strangle her right from when we were three years old and she cut off the heads of all my Barbie dolls. 

Rest in fucking peace twinnie. 

And with that, I had successfully executed my first murder. I told you it would be a thrilling tale. 

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     Well I wasn't going to stick around long enough for the cops to spring into action and start asking questions that I had the answers to, so I needed to leave the vicinity quickly.

     The excuse was quite simple and believable; "I needed space to recover from the heartbreak of my goldigging fiancè's death and a failed wedding." 

     Immediately I had told my mum that, she burst into tears and quickly helped me book the next flight to Manchester, not very far away from Cambridge where we lived, but I would stay there for a few weeks until it was time for Kyndall's wedding which would be held in good ol' Vegas, America. 

And I had no plans on returning back home after that. 

     So here I am, a month later with a brand new facial identify after a rhinoplasty procedure, a brow-lift, a few lip fillers and tonight, I was ready to have the time of my life at the male strip club; drink some alcohol and probably find a nice English dick to keep me company. 

I was dressed in some skimpy black dress that had a lot of ropes and didn't cover much skin and it made me feel like Blonde Kitty the stripper.

      After like—what?, four, or five drinks of whatever the Italian barman had poured in my glass, I was tipsy– not shitfaced drunk but not exactly sobered either. 

Having the time of my life ✓

Feeding my eyes with the marvelous sight of ripped men in tight clothing, grinding their hips, shaking their booty and seductively pole dancing ✓

Had too many shots to think about the heartbreak and my stupid life✓

     And now what was left unchecked on that list was to find that English dick that would fuck me senseless until I couldn't feel my fucking legs, and make me unremember the misery, even if it was for one night.

And I think I had found one...

      This handsome stranger in a dark suit kept staring at me. He was sat alone at the bar at the other end of the room. 

I stared back at the delicious eye-candy of a specimen with the intent of having him make me scream pleasured profanities all night. .

He caught my gaze as the corner of his mouth lifted and I could see the hint of a smile play on his lips.

     He was everything that howled and synonymically meant 'sex on fucking legs' in every gigantic English Thesaurus dictionary and I fed my eyes some more as I oogled at this embodiment of sexy.

In simple words, I wanted to fuck him.

And I was going to make sure of that. 

     I winked at him seductively, before flashing him a smile and gracefully getting off the barstool as I made my way to the dancefloor.

     I eloquently swayed my hips to the music in the must sultriest manner I could muster, definitely not overdoing it. I could feel his needle-like gaze etched to my being, raking through my body and following my every move. 

     And then he finally approached me on the dancefloor, his tall tower of a frame hovering behind me as he handed me a glass of vodka, curling his free arm around my waist and my whole body ignited at the touch. 

     I pushed the drink away chuckling, "I don't take drinks from strangers, pretty boy." I smirked, turning to face him now and taking a full glance at his fit and toned body that was now at close proximity. "But I don't mind fucking this stranger."

     "That's great news sweetheart, because I've been wanting to fuck you since you walked in that door." 

And with that we had left the strip club as he thoroughly expressed his disdain for the cheap STD infected rooms the strip club provided. 

     We got ourselves a room at the first hotel in sight, too drunk to give fuck about anything else other than the fiery sexual tension that existed, but definitely drunk enough to fuck a stranger. 

      He had soon slammed me against the couch, his lips passionately colliding with mine and his hands undid every fibre in my bone as his fingers thrusted out my first orgasm. 

      And then we rid ourselves of the hindrances of clothes before he rendered me useless, fucking my brains out multiple times as he had bent me over the freaking desk, had me on the bed, on the couch, against the kitchen counter, and literally every other place you could think of smelt of sex between hot stranger and heartbroken Ashlynn. 

After he had done so much pleasurable ruining to my being with his tongue, cock and fingers, I sank into the bed, exhausted as hell and falling asleep almost immediately.

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The sunrays hit my face violently and I rolled out of bed, crashing into a mess of sore limbs and blonde hair. 

     I groaned, getting myself off the floor but couldn't stand straight and I collapsed back on the bed overwhelmed by an immense headache and the aching of my tired legs. 

Where in God's name was I? 

     And then realization slapped me right in the damned face. 

I was in some hotel yesterday, and some guy fucked me senseless, as I had wished. I smiled sheepishly as the memories came rushing back to me. 

     I couldn't really remember what he looked like exactly, my brain was probably scrambled from all the alcohol I took last night. 

But I do remember that he was a gorgeous embodiment of testosterone who knew how to wield it right. 

     I looked to the side of the bed and saw no one there, in fact there wasn't a trace that anyone else was in the room other than me. It made me wonder if all I had remembered was just a weird sexual fantasy but no, the soreness I was feeling sure felt real. 

It was then I noticed a note, by the bedside table literally screaming "pick-me-up-and-read-me."

And I did. 

“WE ARE MARRIED NOW 

I have a flight to catch this morning, so by the time you’re reading this, I’m already gone. But make sure to meet me at the strip club in three days time and I’ll explain everything to you. 

Dress sexily.”

Okay first of all, minus a hundred points for being cringe.

Secondly, his handwriting was like chicken scratch. 

     And most importantly, what the hell did he mean by we're married now? Such rubbish. He probably says that to all his one-night stands. 

      I tossed the letter away and it was then I noticed the diamond studded wedding ring that sat beautifully on my middle finger.